A Valley to Die For

by Radine Trees Nehring

  What was that by the old tree? Something, a trick of shadow—just the shadow of memory from when Amos had died there—a memory returning to her for the first time in many months.

  She was very calm. Trick of shadow. That was all.

  She shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them to walk again. The crunch of her steps in dry leaves sounded too loud.

  Sunlight and shadow. The tree did have something.

  Carrie felt cold, as cold as frost flowers.

  Amos! “Oh, no. Ohhh, dear God!”

  No! No, no, not Amos... impossible. She shook her head back and forth, hoping the image would clear away, but it didn’t.

  It was very real. And it was JoAnne.

  JoAnne, with her head and shoulders propped against the giant tree trunk. So cold... where was her red coat?

  Now Carrie moved fast and sank to her knees beside her friend, unaware that she was kneeling on rocks. For a few moments everything was still, she was still. All she could hear was the scream of a crow, echoing around her, and the sound of someone breathing.

  The side of JoAnne’s head wasn’t bright red like Amos’s had been, but it was the same unreal, unhuman mess. This was a familiar death, one Carrie had lived through before.

  Blood. Where was the blood? She knew there should be a lot of blood.

  She dropped the radio, took off her glove, and reached for her friend’s bare hand. When she touched it, her own fingers felt ice, and she realized JoAnne’s hand, as cold and hard as ice itself, was lying on a crushed frost flower.

  Carrie shut her eyes in bewilderment. Why was it happening again, and where was the blood?

  Words from the 23rd Psalm raced through her head: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death... I will fear no evil... thou art with me... thou art with me... thou art... shadow of death... comfort me... comfort me... thou art with me... ”

  She didn’t cry.

  * * *

  Time passed, but how much, no one would ever know or care. Eventually Carrie was aware that she was shaking with a cold, hard rage. Hunters! But when? Not recently. Nothing here was warm. No life had wisped away on this hillside this morning.

  And, she had heard no shots. Not this morning. Yesterday! The opening day of hunting season.

  She got to her feet and began to move as quickly as she could over the forest floor, trying to control her shaking with quick movement. It was impossible to run, there were too many rocks and fallen branches. Slow down, no need to run. Falling could be disastrous, and for JoAnne it now would make no difference how fast she did something. Or even, Carrie realized, whether or not she did anything at all!

  She stopped walking. So why do anything? Her thoughts rushed crazily. It would be fair. She’d already... coped with one death on this hillside. Go home. Dress. Go to church. Let someone else find this and deal with it.

  NO! The hunter would pay, and if no one else found him—or her—Carrie would. Yesterday morning! Oh, dear God, it must have been the shots she heard yesterday morning. She would ask, would find out who had been in the woods, and that person would pay. Her rage carried her home in a rush, and this time she did dial 911.

  * * *

  After she’d explained—very slowly—exactly what she had found, Carrie gave directions to her mail box and from there to her house. The person on the phone asked her to stay at the house, though Carrie protested she should go back to JoAnne, who had now become “the body.” It had occurred to Carrie that the hunter who shot JoAnne might return to remove evidence, though actually she hadn’t any idea what that could be, especially after a day had passed. A shell? Maybe he dropped something, something that would say who he was. She hadn’t looked around at all.

  And she should be with JoAnne, make sure nothing and no one came to harm her. Then it occurred to her that, now, JoAnne was beyond harm.

  The man on the phone said a deputy would be there within thirty minutes. Did she have someone to come be with her?

  Who would that be, Carrie wondered. JoAnne was the only close friend she had. There was Rob, of course, but he was three hundred miles away. She and JoAnne had once talked about the fact that they had Rob and Susan and, after that, only each other.

  Oh, no, Susan! She was going to have to find a way to tell this to Susan.

  Perhaps Henry could. Maybe he’d come over to be with her. He was—after all—a kind friend.

  But, she discovered, Henry wasn’t home to answer his phone.

  For a minute she thought of Roger and Shirley. But they’d be busy with milking.

  So, she’d have to carry on alone. She picked up the phone and prepared to give the terrible news to the little family in Kansas City.

  The door knocker sounded just as Carrie finished her conversation with Susan’s husband who, thank goodness, had been the one to answer the phone. The sheriff’s man, it seemed, had made good time.

  She opened the door, and Henry, looking much older than she remembered from last night, stood on the porch holding out her portable radio.

  She stepped back. As he came toward her, he spoke. “You found her?”

  “Yes,” she said. Then, while she was standing there, looking at his crumpled face, something inside her broke loose.

  The ice that had been there for so many years cracked and melted as she went to him and, as soon as she was safe in the circle of his arms, Carrie McCrite began to cry.

  CHAPTER VII

  Carrie’s tears finally stopped, but she didn’t look up. She kept her eyes closed, her head down, and listened to the thump—thump—thump in Henry’s chest. The calming vibration and warmth made her think, suddenly, of the flutter of Rob’s heart when he was a baby.

  How many times had she rested her cheek against her son’s tiny body, then brushed her lips against his tummy?

  A heart was life. But JoAnne...

  She couldn’t think coherently. Being hugged was all that mattered.

  Henry’s hand moved, patting her back gently. She wiggled her body, snuggling closer, and sighed. It came out as a long, shuddering sound.

  The strong arms tightened around her, and for just an instant there was no memory of death.

  Then the spell was broken. Her nose was going to drip. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose, trying to be quiet about it and failing miserably.

  Her thoughts vaulted to the future. She had to make plans. She’d have to arrange for time off work, take care of Susan and her family. She was executor of JoAnne’s estate, and then there was the cat...

  She’d always said no one is given challenges that God doesn’t have enough strength for. So, there it was. And now she was crying again. No! She couldn’t!

  Henry stood quietly. He didn’t seem to be alarmed by her silence, or the sigh, or the tears. He said nothing, asked nothing, just continued to hold her while she assembled her thoughts for the necessary actions ahead. But, of course, he couldn’t know what she was thinking. Well, that was one plus. He was certainly patient.

  At last she pulled back and glanced up.

  Henry had wet eyes! She hadn’t heard anything, but there were tear tracks down the creases in his cheeks. Carrie resisted an urge to feel the top of her head to see if it was wet.

  Were the tears for her? He had barely known JoAnne, though, God knows, what they had both seen on that hillside was enough to cause distress.

  She said, “I’ll make coffee. Let’s sit down.”

  Henry looked too big to be really comfortable on the chairs at her dining table, so she carried the coffee mugs to the oak table between the chairs by the wood stove. He remained silent, seeming to be deep in thought, and Carrie, feeling like she was living in a world full of fog, was glad to be quiet too. She could hear JoAnne’s angry voice chanting familiar words, over and over. “Crime against the land, crime against... ”

  But JoAnne had meant the quarry, not her own death! This crime was against JoAnne, who couldn’t have known.

  Finally, Carrie
looked up at Henry and found him watching her. “You’ve never mentioned,” she said. “Do you hunt?”

  “No.”

  She swallowed, willing tears away so she could speak clearly. “We’ll find the hunter—the murderer,” she said. Even in her own ears, her voice sounded defiant.

  “Yes,” he said very slowly, staring into his mug now.

  She was glad he agreed with her. “Susan and Putt are coming. I’m to call them back after... after... uh... They said a memorial service in Guilford. Susan and the baby are flying here Wednesday, and Putt will drive down Friday.”

  She went on, steadier now, knowing what she must do for JoAnne. “I heard shots just before you called me yesterday morning. Did you? I heard the shot that... ”

  “I heard the shots. Carrie, I—”

  The sound of a car stopped him, and after a moment Carrie got up to go to the door. As the knocker banged, she was sorry she didn’t have time to check her face. She realized with surprise that she hadn’t worried about what Henry saw on her face.

  The man standing there looked very businesslike and rock-solid in the conviction that he knew how to handle this and any other difficulty in the county. He carried a small bag and had on a brown jacket with the insignia of the county sheriff’s department, as well as a black belt almost hidden under an assortment of attachments and pouches. He introduced himself as Deputy Sheriff Leon Faraday.

  Carrie stood aside silently, wondering if the man wanted to come in. She was glad when Henry appeared beside her.

  “I’m Henry King, a neighbor of Mrs. McCrite’s. Do you want us to take you to where the body is?”

  “Yes,” said Faraday, “will you show me, or... ?” He looked at Carrie.

  “I’ll go,” she said, “but I’d appreciate it if Henr—Mr. King—came along.”

  “I’ll wait while you get your coats on,” said Faraday, stepping back onto the porch.

  Henry had already gone to get their coats, but Carrie stopped him. She could not put on that orange coat and hat again. She got her blue down jacket from the closet and pulled a stocking cap over her ears.

  She led the way to the creek, following the path that her own feet—and JoAnne’s—had worn during many woodland walks. When they got close to the fallen tree, she hesitated, then stopped, pointing. Henry went ahead, with Faraday close behind.

  The two men stood beside the body, looking down and talking, then Faraday knelt and looked more carefully at JoAnne and the ground around her, touching nothing. Henry began talking again, and Faraday nodded, then looked up, listening. Carrie couldn’t hear what was being said and didn’t want to watch them if they touched JoAnne, so she began to circle around the hillside, thinking maybe she’d find something that would lead her to the murderous hunter.

  Henry called to her. “Carrie, don’t move around. Let him look first.”

  Understanding at once, she stopped where she was. She, with JoAnne’s help, had developed an ability to read signs on the forest floor and supposed Faraday had too. Now that the sun was higher, she could see a trail of disturbed leaves leading up the hill toward the old fire road. Someone had come straight down or gone up the hill. Shuffling? Maybe the hunter had a limp or had barely lifted his feet as he walked. The trail wasn’t made by an animal. Their paths didn’t disrupt leaves in a long straight line and, anyway, if something like a coyote had come, well, JoAnne probably wouldn’t look like she did now. Carrie thought of the buzzards and the eagles that returned to the area every winter. There really were a lot of creatures in the woods, large and small, that ate, uh. Oh! Dear God.

  She blinked tears, shuddered, and suddenly felt very tired. She wanted to go back home.

  She started toward the men. Faraday was talking into a cellular phone. She waited until he finished, then pointed uphill. “Did you see the path in the leaves? I didn’t make it. I came down the hill over there. You can still see where my boots ruffled the leaves. I imagine Mr. King came that way.” She pointed to the opposite angle, up the hillside. “His house is that way, but,” she wrinkled her brow and looked at Henry, who simply returned her gaze and said nothing, “I don’t see signs.”

  “Yes,” said Faraday, “someone must have dragged her in from straight uphill. The body shows evidence of being pulled over rough ground. Most men could have carried her, but the body had stiffened so, well, dragging might have been easier.”

  “Why would the hunter drag her here? What would be the point? Was he trying to hide her?”

  Henry began to walk toward her. “Carrie, we, that is, the deputy, doesn’t think JoAnne was killed by a hunter.”

  “But, did you tell him we heard the shots?”

  “Yes, and I think the shots we heard came from somewhere in the woods between your house and mine. You’re right, they sounded like a hunter’s rifle. But it looks like JoAnne was killed with a handgun.”

  Carrie stared at him. “But, why would someone come here with a handgun? What would they be shooting at? Target practice? Squirrels? Well, what?”

  “There’ll be more people joining Deputy Faraday here soon, and questions like that are what they’re trained to answer. They’ll probably want to talk with you eventually, and Faraday has a few questions now. Then, wouldn’t you like to go home?”

  “Yes,” said Carrie, “I would.”

  Faraday’s questions were all about how she had found the body and whether she had touched anything. She wasn’t paying much attention to what she said but supposed she was giving answers that satisfied him, because his voice went on smoothly as if from a great distance, asking a new question after she’d answered the last one.

  “When I touched her hand,” she said, interrupting him, “there was ice under it, a frost flower.”

  That stopped the questions, and Faraday stared at her. Finally Henry said, “Frost flowers—ice formations that come out of the ground in the early morning this time of year.”

  “Yes,” said Carrie. “And they wouldn’t have been here until early this morning. She wasn’t here until this morning.”

  After a long silence, Faraday nodded his head as Henry took her arm. “I’ll walk you back now. I said I’d meet the other people who are coming and bring them back here.”

  As Henry went with her up the hill on her side of the creek, Carrie remembered the red coat. “Why didn’t JoAnne have her red coat on?” she said aloud, then decided she’d better tell Henry about being in the house. She stopped to catch her breath and turned to face him. “I looked through her house a bit yesterday afternoon. I went to check on the cat. I, well, I guess it wasn’t the right thing to do, but I also looked around. Mostly I was thinking about the report, which I didn’t find, by the way, and I was worried. So I even looked inside closets and... places like that. JoAnne’s red coat and hat were gone.”

  Henry spoke gently as they started up the hill again. “I think that’s one thing you’d better tell the people who come to ask you about JoAnne.”

  When they got to the house, it was Henry who offered to make more coffee, and he headed toward the kitchen. Carrie, saying she didn’t want any, went to her chair by the wood stove, sank into it, and closed her eyes.

  She heard the teakettle shrill, the clink of spoon on pottery, and then Henry’s heavy steps as he came to the chair beside her and put his coffee cup on the table. In the silence a log popped loudly in the woodstove, and though it was a familiar sound, Carrie jumped.

  “There’s something you should know about me before the people from the sheriff’s department come,” he said at last. “Something I’ve tried to leave behind, but it won’t stay in the past now.”

  He was speaking very slowly, as if he had to think before saying any sentence aloud.

  “I never told you much about my police work in Kansas City. I retired as a major in the homicide unit. Things like... this... were what I worked on. I retired as soon as I could. There were getting to be too many dead kids. I couldn’t... well, I’d had enough.

  “Then
I began selling real estate, and Irena left. I thought I was through with murder.” He paused, sighed, and went on. “Now, here it is again. Faraday already knows I used to be a homicide detective. I never wanted you to see Henry King, the cop, and I darn sure don’t want to be him, but I know too much about what’s going to be happening here, and you’ll realize that very soon. I do know, all too well.”

  He was silent for so long this time that Carrie thought he was finished, but then he began again, sounding like he was talking to himself.

  “Some people in Kansas City think I left police work because I was becoming a coward, too soft-hearted. Maybe I was. Irena thought so. Not all women hate being married to a police detective, you know. She didn’t. She gloried in the danger of my life. It gave her some kind of thrill, being married to a man who ‘put his life on the line,’ as she said. And she loved the sympathy that being a common policeman’s wife got from her society friends and her family. It was like I was Irena’s personal charity case. After I quit being a policeman, well, I guess her only reason for staying married to me quit too.”

  Carrie was taking all this in with more interest than Henry could have imagined.

  “I guess what I’m trying to explain is pretty hard for an outsider to understand.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. “No, I don’t think so. It seems to me your work was... well, about justice, wasn’t it? And that’s good. The two of us can help find justice for JoAnne. Oh, I know the sheriff’s department investigates these things. But they don’t care like we do and don’t know this area like we do. We have something to offer. It’s good you know how to go about it.”

  “Carrie, we can’t interfere with the sheriff’s investigation. I wouldn’t have welcomed such help, and I’m sure they won’t. They would see it as interference, you know, and I wouldn’t blame them. Besides, it could be dangerous for us—or for them.”

  “We’ll work in the background and not bother the sheriff. We knew JoAnne, or I did at least. They don’t.”

  A sudden shock of power and excitement surged through her as she said, “I don’t think we can help being involved anyway. We were her friends, all of us on Walden Road.”